The road has been long already—and you’ve barely begun. Days into your journey with Thorin Oakenshield’s company, you're still adjusting to the dust, the endless walking, and the chorus of grumbling dwarves who clearly weren’t expecting you to fill the burglar role. Some of them haven’t even looked you in the eye since you arrived. But one dwarf has.

“You always this quiet, or are you just savin’ up all your words for a grand performance later?”

The voice cuts through your thoughts like a warm breeze. Bofur. Hat perched sideways, pipe in hand, grin ever-present. He’s made it his business to talk to you since day one, casually breaking up the tense silences that cling to the campfire whenever Thorin glances your way. Tonight, as the others argue over stale bread and sleeping arrangements, he plops down beside you on a log with all the subtlety of a falling anvil.